Gemotions

The salmon mousse was the first offense. He stared at it, a pale, gelatinous horror shimmering under the buffet lights. He poked at it with his fork, the tines barely making a dent. He’d volunteered to speak, a martyr to his own sense of familial obligation. Now, standing at the microphone, he felt his stomach churn.

He cleared his throat, the sound echoing unnaturally in the suddenly hushed room. His mother’s beaming face, her eyes crinkled in what he was supposed to interpret as pure joy, only made it worse. He wanted to flee, to be swallowed whole by the nearest exit.

“Well,” he began, his voice tight, “thirty years. That’s… a long time.” The words felt like sandpaper in his mouth. He scanned the faces, a sea of forced smiles and expectant gazes. He took a hasty gulp of water, the taste of the ice cold against the rising bile in his throat.